Always Yours
by StarkLady
Summary: Another Arya Stark/Jon Snow reunion. Arya asks him about some rumors she heard on her way home, including his parentage and being proclaimed King in the North. Book and show elements both included. Arya/Jon pairing. Very short chapters.
1. Chapter 1

"Jon."

Arya Stark barely breathed the word, afraid that acknowledging his presence would break the spell and he would fade into nothingness. She could not move, only stare. Although there was no way he could have heard her soft whisper from across the room, no way it could have awakened him, Jon Snow's eyes opened suddenly. His face turned toward her, his gaze searching the darkness as he sat up in the bed. Arya tried to speak again but couldn't seem to gain control of herself. Then his eyes found hers. She could see confusion on his face, and she had never known fear such as she felt in that moment, worrying that he would not recognize her or, even worse, that he had forgotten her completely.

Then the recognition in his grey eyes shone bright, and he smiled. Arya knew that smile better she knew her own face. It was the smile she had dreamed of, the smile that had warmed her heart in moments of doubt when she wondered if she even had a heart anymore. Her smile. Her Jon. She barely noticed the tears running down her cheeks. Before she realized either of them had moved, she was in his arms, her feet not even touching the floor as he easily lifted her, pulling her slim body against his.

"Arya. Arya." Over and over he whispered the name into her dark hair as he held her close. She felt soft kisses on the top of her head, then a lingering one on her forehead, his lips warm against her chilled skin. "Arya, is it really you?" Though he spoke in hushed wonderment, his voice was deeper than she remembered.

"It's me, Jon," she managed as she squeezed him with every ounce of strength she could muster.

He lowered her back to the floor, and they both loosened their grips but stayed locked in the familiar embrace, neither willing to let the other slip away. Her face pressed against his bare chest, and his chin rested gently on her head. They spoke no further greetings, only held each other, crying tears of relief and absolute joy.

After several minutes, Arya pulled back just enough to look up into Jon's face. She raised one hand and stroked his cheek with a tenderness she hadn't known she possessed.

"I've missed you," they said at the same time and both laughed truly for the first time in years


	2. Chapter 2

He had dreamed of this, of Arya coming home, of her returning to him. He'd often imagined it. In Jon's mind, his little sister would run to him and he would lift her up, swing her around, then muss her hair. Just like when they were the misfit children of Winterfell. Jon the Bastard and Arya Underfoot.

For years, he had wanted nothing more. Ever since he'd left for the Wall as a green boy of just fourteen years, he had yearned to see her again and recreate those moments. He longed to feel once again the tender, innocent love they had shared. The desire had only intensified since he'd returned to Winterfell. The castle felt empty without her. _Maybe I feel empty without her_ , he thought.

However, now that Arya was here, Jon found that much to his disbelief, swinging her around or even mussing her hair was not what he wanted. Those things seemed childish and out of place. Something had changed. He was different. She was different. Maybe everything was different. Arya didn't feel like a child in his arms and certainly didn't look like one anymore. What he felt wasn't the same either, though he couldn't say quite how. Jon knew nothing other than he had to hold her, he had to touch her, and he intended never to let her go. Arya. His Arya.

She was smiling up at him, her hand now stroking his cheek gently, and Jon leaned his face into the gentle caress, savoring the warmth of her flesh against his. Arya was alive, and she was with him. She was finally home.

Jon relaxed his embrace slightly and took her hand, bringing the back of it to his lips. But it wasn't enough. He kissed the knuckle of each finger, slowly and methodically, certain that he had never known true happiness until this moment.

"Arya," he whispered her name in a slow sigh just to say it, just to hear it. Then he brushed his lips against her palm, wondering if anything would ever be enough.


	3. Chapter 3

_He's real. It's really him_ , she kept telling herself, still half-convinced he would disappear, only a mirage in the mind of a delusional little girl. But Arya could feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest with each breath. She could feel the heat of his skin against her own, the contact sending an occasional shiver through her body as they remained locked in their fierce embrace. It felt strange. She couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged her.

As a child, Arya had lost everyone she loved, leaving her alone, consumed by an anger that begged for blood. Seeking a path to vengeance, she had crossed the Narrow Sea to train in the art of death. There she had grown into womanhood surrounded by strangers without feelings, men without identities. The Faceless Men. They had taken everything she had left. Her possessions. Her senses. Her emotions. Her name. Her memories. She had given all of it to them.

All except one thing.

Even after she had let Arya Stark die, after she had truly become no one and felt nothing; even then she'd kept one thing. Even when she no longer remembered why, she'd kept it. A skinny sword in a sheath of black leather, supple as sin, hidden away beneath a loose stone.

She didn't know how long she'd left it there. Some number of years. Then one night, she'd dreamed again.

It had been years since the last one, but she'd recognized it as a wolf dream immediately. Colors were dull, almost nonexistent in the moonlight, but her sense of smell was keen, heightened beyond all else. For a moment, the world was comprised only of the scent of fresh snow and even fresher death. Then her mind calmed, allowing her to take in the strong, metallic taste of blood. She could feel the wolf's hunger for more, her own hunger for more. Manflesh. She would have joined the pack of smaller wolves in their feast, as she used to do in these dreams, but there was something different this time. A voice so airy it could have been the wind, and maybe it was, but it was also somehow familiar.

Was it calling a name?

 _Arya. Arya_.

The wolf turned, seeking the source, and focused on a face carved in the pale bark of large tree, its eyes crying a thick, dark red substance that smelled more of blood than sap.

 _Arya_.

She had worn half a hundred faces, but none had been like the one she saw before her now, ancient beyond ancient. She had seen countless images showing the different aspects of the many-faced god, yet this felt different. The old gods of Westeros, she could tell. Somehow it felt... real... as though the gods were watching her, calling out to her. Not the many-faced god. Not the god of death. But the old gods themselves.

The gods of her family.

 _A girl has no family_ , she had reminded herself.

But when the wolf looked at the pack that surrounded her, feasting still on the flesh of their enemies, she had known. This was her pack, and she had another as well, waiting for her to return. Her family was calling her home, and she would answer the call.

Though she could no longer remember what she'd hidden beneath the loose stone, she knew it was hers. And when she touched it once again, she did remember.

 _Needle_.

The pain had been overwhelming, excruciating. It was the first thing she had felt in years, and it was wonderful. A beautiful, searing pain. She couldn't get enough of it. Memories came flooding back. Her family. Her list. Her sword. Her half-brother. Everything.

Once she had thought that nothingness wasn't better or worse than anything, that it was just nothing. But she now realized how wrong she'd been. Nothingness was worse than anything she had ever known. She wanted the pain, the rage. She needed it because she needed to feel in order to be alive.

Arya Stark had been reborn.

Now she was home, standing in what had once been her parents' bedchamber and Jon Snow's arms were wrapped around her, holding her impossibly close. Jon Snow, who had loved her without question. Jon Snow, who would want her even if no one else did. Jon Snow, who she had loved more than anyone, who she had missed more than anyone.

He brought his mouth to each of her fingers, gently but purposefully, his lips soft, their touch tender. When he kissed her palm, Arya felt a warmth radiating through her body and her breath seemed to be caught in her throat. She wondered if that was what love felt like. She couldn't remember anymore.

"I'm so sorry," Jon said, now relaxing his embrace and taking her hand in one of his own and holding it against his chest. He looked at her with such pain in his eyes, Arya didn't know what to say. "I should have never left you. I should've been with you," he continued. He brought the back of her hand to his lips once more and held it there, even as he spoke. Arya could feel his mouth forming each word. "I should have protected you."

His lips against her skin overwhelmed her senses, and Arya had to fight to regain control of herself. She tried to pull away, but Jon released her hand and tightened his arms around her. He wasn't letting her go.

Feeling the corners of her mouth turning up in a wide smile, Arya found that for the first time in years, she could not control her face. After everything that had happened, she was home again. She was in Jon Snow's arms, and she was happy.

She didn't want him to ever let go.


End file.
